Maternal Intuition
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: Sometimes Heather Reese feels guilty. A piece exploring the whereabouts of Logan Reese's biological mother. Mentions LoganQuinn.


**A/N: This one just popped into my head, only because I have the whole "what if?" scenario of Logan and his mother in my head. It's small, but it's resounding, but this addresses that. So, enjoy it. And I hope you take a liking to this. According to my lovely 'To Do' List, this oneshot is next. I'm exploring the "what could have been" relationship with Logan. And this will have some Heather/Malcolm interaction too – but not in the typical way. In my mind, the relationship between his parents isn't normal anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I hate these things. I own nothing but Logan's mom because no one knows who she is, so I made her up. Wanna use her? Just ask. **

* * *

Sometimes, Heather Reese feels guilty.

In the midst of a divorce that transpires after a tumultuous marriage that lasts nine years and a job that requires her to fly in between places all over the globe like clockwork, she feels incredibly guilty because although Heather speaks to her son as much as she can, but she sees him sporadically. It's the luster of her job, being an artist and owning two galleries in Manhattan and another in the heart of Los Angeles.

Currently, she's engaging in the rare art of sleeping in until after noon after flying in from Barcelona last night. Heather's condo isn't so small, actually quite large, but it's quiet. Her king sized bed she's housed in has crinkled sheets underneath her. Her brown hair is in a messy bun with a few loose wisps falling in her face. Heather's bedroom walls have art on them – abstract art, folk art, self-made art, mosaics.

And that's just her bedroom.

The essence of her house is like the living room that smoothly branches into the kitchen with the marble counter. The moment is right now, and right now, Heather is sleeping lazily, her arm hanging off the side of her bed, French manicured nails included. Her right foot is peeking from underneath the soft blue, green and purple duvet.

Heather feels herself being jerked from the grip of deep, blissful sleep by the loud ringing of her cell phone, playing the newest song to weave itself into the recesses of her head. Her eyes are heavy with the weight of sleep – or whatever is left of it. The iBerry Touch won't stop ringing until Heather's hazel eyes are greeted by the afternoon sunlight already making pretty pictures on her mauve coloured walls.

"So, goodnight, goodnight. You're embarrassing me, you're embarrassing you – "

"Hello?" she answers, voice hushed and quiet. Suppressing a yawn, the artist rolls over on her back, making her stare out at the ceiling, the small device pressed against her ear.

The voice on the other end laughs, "You haven't changed a bit, haven't you?"

"What do you want, Malcolm?" she immediately questions. She realizes it's a stupid question to ask but she's just so jet-lagged and irritated. She rolls out of bed, and slips her feet into bunny slippers. She hasn't grown out of her fuzzy slippers phase, but there are a lot of things she hasn't grown out of. Maybe Heather doesn't want to admit that she'll be staring 40 in the face next January. Either way, she's irritated.

"Yes, still irritable in the morning as always."

Lightly grimacing at the feeling of small eye crust lodged in her eyes, Heather yawns and rubs a hand over her eyes before she's in the bathroom.

"If you must know, I just flew in from Barcelona last night, so yeah, sue me if I'm irritated."

"Come over. It's about Logan and it won't be as wholesome if I tell you over the phone," Malcolm pauses and then adds, with a sigh. "And I was hoping we could see each other today."

Heather sighs, and pretends to think about it, and mull it over, "Hmm, let me think it over."

"Please."

"Oh, wow. Did you just say," Heather pauses mock surprise, complete with wide eyes and a slender hand to her mouth for the maximum effect. " – _please_?"

"Don't milk this, Heather."

"It's like you don't know me at all, Malcolm," she counters, with a satisfied smirk that turns into a wry smile. She sighs, allowing the highlighted brown hair to fall slightly past her shoulders, lightly chucking the clip on her disheveled bed before accepting her ex-husband's offer. "Give me an hour."

Heather hangs up first before Malcolm does because it's habitual.

Even after the downfall of their whirlwind, hurricane of a marriage, Heather always has to have the last final word.

When Heather hangs up, and takes a look in the bathroom mirror.

She has one hour to stop looking like the undead, but it's an idea for Halloween.

.

.

.

Malcolm and Heather's relationship can be described in one word: competitive.

They butt heads about everything from who actually sleeps on which side of the bed to who gets more custody of Logan. The term is stretched out in legal terms between them, but the terms between Malcolm and Heather is that they share Logan every other week, but that gets shot to hell and Heather realizes that Logan may feel conflicted having this tug of war between two parents who love him, and like each other in a freakish _Mr. & Mrs. Smith_ kind of way. So, the final condition is that Logan live with Malcolm, but sees Heather whenever he feels the need to. If Heather's out of town, they text, IM, e-mail and talk on the phone all the time.

And then there's the fun competition.

There's the "fun" competition – a test of strong wills, stubbornness, I-can-win-more-than-you-can.

Finally, she reaches the mansion that is sort of dear to her heart. After all, Heather doesn't necessarily hate her ex-husband because they're two people that have sex which results in a child turned eighteen-year-old, as of April 23rd, between them. Parking, she wonders when Malcolm gets valet parking, but if she wonders any more, she may cause herself a migraine that's really not needed. Her black knee high boots match her black, white and red patterned dress – accessories and all. Heather pulls the oversized Gucci shades from her eyes, expertly twisting the keys around a pinkie. The index finger is just too easy, and Heather loves a challenge.

"Park it," she instructs to the valet guy, while she secures the bag strap on her shoulder.

He gives her the once-over, and eagerly catches the keys she tosses at him, "Yes, ma'am. I'll find you the best spot."

"Thank you."

"You are more than welcome."

To her surprise, Chauncey greets her at the door, still apathetic than what she remembers, annoyingly sarcastic, even more so with the British accent and ever so omnipresent like he just appears out of the clear blue sky randomly.

"Hey, Chauncey," Heather greets just to be nice. "How are, uh, things?"

"Things are well, Miss. Heather. Mr. Reese should be down shortly. Have a seat."

"Okay, then," she replies, kind of awkwardly. How this place got to be so swanky, she'll probably never know, but at least Malcolm keeps the black and white tiled floor that clicks underneath her footwear so sharply. It's her idea years ago, even though she moves out and lives an hour away. Heather lives just forty-five minutes away from PCA, so she'll have to surprise Logan one of these days – it's an itch she'll have to scratch.

Heather's sitting in one of the living rooms she vaguely remembers.

The keyword is vague, but at least she remembers it well enough.

.

.

.

He hugs her, and she's clearly thrown off-guard.

At least, Brad and Angelina fall in love while filming _Mr. & Mrs. Smith_. Hell, in 2005, Brad Pitt is someone Heather honestly wouldn't mind sleeping with just for sport. Four years later, she grimaces and thinks the kids have clearly worn him down. Luckily, George Clooney is there for back up and she can always fawn over him since he'll just be an eighty-year-old bachelor and still look as hot as he does now.

Heather loves Malcolm. She just can't love him enough to stay married to him. She tries to plans the outcome of it all in her head: she'll snap, losing all trace of sanity and probably poison the guy with arsenic or something. Either way, she'll murder the guy and lose her son. Heather will not do that so divorce seems like the sane option.

Malcolm sits across from her, and offers her a Brandy.

"Brandy?"

"No," she immediately replies, shaking her head and smirks. " – because honestly, I'll eventually lose count, trap myself in a drunken haze and end up with sleeping with you," she adds, with a sigh. " – again."

"Right," the director recalls, nostalgia on his features as the warm brown liquid is poured into a small shiny goblet. He swirls the glass around, and shrugs. "We can't exactly tell our son his divorced parents had sex."

"Malcolm!"

"If he's old enough to have a steady girlfriend in his life for once, and know what the purpose of a condom is, then he knows what sex is."

Heather sighs, loudly with rolls her eyes, changing the subject. It's one time, maybe a couple more times. But the brandy clearly clouds her thinking and obviously her judgment because if she remains sober, sleeping with Malcolm wouldn't even be considered an option. Rather, she'll stick forks in her eyes. But sadly, she's sober enough in the midst of all the alcohol coursing through her to come to the scary conclusion that Malcolm never really loses his touch in the sack. The conclusion is not the exhilarating kind of scary, or the dangerous kind that makes Heather want to bounce off the walls, but just plain scary.

"That's psychological abuse if you didn't know," she admonishes, with a glare. Sometimes, Heather doesn't know when to strangle this handsome director slash producer. "Obviously, you're not getting Father of the Year."

"And strangely enough, I'm okay with that," he rebuts, and makes an attempt to offer her another Brandy. "The Brandy is really good."

Crossing her arms over chest, Heather plainly deadpans, "Are you trying to get me in bed with you again? Because it's not going to work."

"It's not my fault you can't hold your liquor long enough to keep your clothes on."

"And it's not exactly my problem if wives two, three, and four can't satisfy you enough to keep you from walking around all sexually frustrated. We're not married anymore," Heather confirms, showing him a hand which has no ring on either ring finger. Oh, but she's close to getting one. Heather's close to being married until her ex-fiancée, Steven tells her all this stuff about settling down and starting to have a family as soon as possible. Heather doesn't want any children, because of her job, and she dumps him and gives the engagement ring back to him, never to see him again. Heather crosses her legs, folding her hands and smiles sarcastically. "It's not my job to fulfill that duty for you today or even other day for that matter."

"Are you forgetting, Heather? I let you keep your name."

"How noble of you," she replies in monotone and rolls her eyes. "Look, you said this was about Logan, so out with it."

"It seems that having Quinn in his life has slightly changed him."

Heather remembers the long conversations, her and Logan share. Quinn's a great girl for him, not to mention quite pretty in appearance. Judging from the e-mails and prom pictures, he sends to her, Logan's actually genuinely happy. And if Logan's happy, then she's happy as well. That's all she wants – for her only child to be happen in life and live it to the fullest without crossing any boundaries.

"Mom, I don't know, but I think Quinn may be the one, and I can't even take my own girlfriend to prom! What the hell?"

"Well, that's what happens when you date someone secretly for fear of social suicide. I think it doesn't matter and PCA should screw themselves, but who am I to say anything?"

"That's it?" Logan questions. "That's all you have to say while I take another girl who is obsessed with me? What kind of parenting is that?"

Heather laughs, "No, that's not all I have to say. Have fun."

"You know if you tell me to bail Junior prom, I will. I'll actually listen to you this time, and honestly, I don't listen to you or Dad?" Logan countered, temptingly. "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, so just take it, Mom. Please just take it."

"Hmm," Heather pretends to think, while splattering paint on large white campus. Yellow, blacks, reds, greens all intertwined together in some warped rainbow of a mess. She leaves the phone on speakerphone so she can multitask – work and keep her son from blowing things out of proportion ever more than he most likely has. "Your offer's tempting, but no. Just go have fun."

She hears him sigh, "Fine, but if I end up hanging myself, it's your fault."

"Don't guilt me. I invented that to get your grandfather to give anything I asked because I was the only girl, so you know that guilting me into it is pretty useless."

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Sweetie, go have fun with your, uh, date," Heather assures, and then turns stern, and almost exasperated because he's aware of the impulsive streak her son has. After all, Heather knows he inherited that for her and the rage that lands him in Anger Management class twice a week – ten classes. "And for the love of God, please don't do anything stupid, devious or manipulative."

"Mom, I'm hurt you don't trust me."

Heather rolls her eyes, and picks up a delicate brush. Her hair is pulled back and her smock is splattered with an array of colours – some blends quite pretty and pleasing to look at, and others that are just plain weird.

"Okay, tell you what, Logan," Heather explains. "I need help with my next art project. Go to prom right now, and be…nice to this girl you obviously can't bear to take to prom while Quinn goes with someone else, and I'll let you help me next weekend. It involves paintball guns, a lot of paint, my art studio and getting messy. So, hang up now, and next weekend, you can come over."

"And they work?"

"Yep!" Heather answers, immediately, smearing bright red paint on the canvas. "Hang up now, and try not to kill yourself, and we'll have fun with paintball guns – "

"Deal! Love you. Bye," is Logan's quick response before she hears the click on the other end.

Heather gets over her nostalgia, when Malcolm mentions Quinn Pensky – the girl Logan loves and is in an ongoing relationship with. Now, her attention is back to her ex-husband, and she's intrigued with what he has to say for once.

"It seems that Logan has applied to two colleges this year. USC and UC Berkeley."

Heather feels there's nothing for her to worry about, because while Malcolm attends USC, and Heather is an art student of UC Berkley.

"Logan's a Berkley kid. His video portfolio's too amazing for him not to be granted admission."

"And that's because of the camera he's had in his hands since he was ten."

"Like mother, like son. He's creative and I encouraged the wild imagination he has," Heather rebuts, succumbing to the temptation to the warm brown Brandy. She runs a rim around the circumference of the glass, the friction between her fingertip and the smooth rim of the glass making an airy noise and then she stops. "Why do you possibly believe that Logan's going to get into USC at all?"

"Easy. Because _I_ went there."

Heather takes a delicate sip of her Brandy. It'll be the first and last one, and it won't result in her waking up naked with a fuzzy spots in her memory that are hazy. Whether or not, those fuzzy moments are a form of self-inflicted repression has yet to be discussed, on her terms because it's her psyche.

"Yes, that's really plausible," Heather says, with a sarcastic laugh. "Logan's going to Berkeley no question."

"Says who?"

"Says the one who let you fuck her, then said person inflated, went through fifteen hours of labour without the use of drugs, and then delivered a nine pound six ounce baby boy into the world! It burned when I peed, and I had morning sickness for nine months straight," she counters, heatedly, and then pauses curtly, clearing her throat. " – and I care about our son's future."

"Right, so are we honestly going to bet on which college Logan gets into because we just naturally like to one-up each other?"

Okay, so the way Malcolm surprisingly makes come to another conclusion: that she's exploiting Logan's college outcome for personal gain, and it sort of seems morally corrupt. Then again, if Logan becomes a USC Trojan, instead of Berkeley Bear, Malcolm will buy Logan a car, be proud of him and lord this over her head for the rest of her life. After a long pause with a ticking that seems to draw on for hours instead of mere seconds, Heather answers her ex-husband's somewhat rhetorical question.

"You suggested it, not me."

"But I know you well enough to say that you're going to go along with it."

Stupid ex-husband and his weakness exploitation, Heather thinks with a sigh and takes the last gulp of her Brandy. The warm liquid slightly burns her throat as it goes down.

Sighing with aggravation, Heather rubs her temple, directing a withering glance towards her smug ex-husband.

"Malcolm, refresh my memory, in the course of our marriage, have I always told you you're the cause of my headaches-turned-monstrous migraines?"

"Infinite times."

"Well, then," Heather stands, and secures the strap of her tote bag to her shoulder and smiles a saccharine sweet smile. " – consider infinity plus one, and prepare to lose."

Heather's boots click-clack across the wide tiled floors and her stomach churns.

Stupid Brandy.

.

.

.

"No, no, no, that's not where I wanted that piece! I wanted that Rembrandt piece at the front!" Heather yells frustrated into the phone. Her office is just one floor away from the actual gallery. It's not the Los Angeles gallery she's worried about. Heather's on the brink of ripping someone head off. Either LA traffic is really congested, or the state of California is actually populated with a bunch of drive challenged retards, but she's really pissed off. "And what the hell is the Mona Lisa doing in a _silver_ frame? You know I hate silver!"

Her manicured nails drum on the mahogany because nothing's going right, and Heather's mere minutes from ripping her hair or someone else's.

"No, no. I'm not aggravated at all," Heather assures Paul, the curator at her New York gallery. "White gold, silver, whatever. Just," she pauses, pinching the bridge of her nose. Heather is desperately trying to suppress the flurry of bad thoughts filling her head – Paul on the rack, Paul in the stocks while the speeding blade of a guillotine smoothly cuts the head clear off his shoulders – "…Just fix it, please. Who's my right hand man?"

There's a pause as a smile touches her lips, "That's right. You are. I'm putting my life's work in your hands. Don't," she commands, smile disappearing as quickly as it comes. " – fail me, Paul."

There's another comment from Paul before Heather hangs up, and exhales long and deep. Heather's eyes land on a framed picture of the one person that she would be willing to sacrifice her life for, because although she's an artist and somewhat of a businesswoman, she's a mother first. She finds Logan's denial amusing, but he's her little boy. There's no denying it, even though he most likely will.

"Miss. Heather," her assistant, Allison appears in her Southern twang. She's holding a clipboard close to her chest. Her dark brunette hair is in a neat bun, with her bangs and light make-up accentuating the colour of her blue irises. With a small dimpled smile, Allison walks in. Heather sets the framed picture down on the desk where she wants it. "If you're busy, I can get back and – "

"Allison, I'm not doing anything," Heather assures, softy. "What's up?"

"Nothing really, but I was kind of hoping you would need this," the petite brunette says and tosses her iBerry Touch to her. Heather gasps, and is pretty sure the road rage clouds her ability to actually be organized – then she's scatterbrained, because she's usually on top of things in a meticulous manner. "And it appears you have two voicemails."

There's a reason why she has Allison – good, reliable, sweet Allison. There's a schedule that the women go over, and Heather is so tired that she leaves her phone on Allison's kitchen table and drives home, instantly collapsing into the recesses of her bed. Being the good assistant she is, the petite brunette finds it laying on the kitchen counter and keeps it in a little drawer in the same place.

"Thank you. You're wonderful. I didn't know I had left this at your house. I owe you one."

"No, you don't," she laughs lightly, eyes twinkling. "I'm just doing my job. Speaking of which, I have to get back to. See you in a bit, Miss. Heather."

"Just Heather's fine. I've been telling you that for the past three years."

"It's just Southern hospitality," the twenty-four year old shrugs sheepishly. "Just the way, my mama raised me, I guess."

The assistant throws her another smile and leaves Heather's office, and there is one voicemail that makes me smile so wide. Gloating is in order here. It really is. Her finger touches the alert that says she has one voicemail unheard, and she's smiling even more now.

"Hey Boss Lady," the teasing voice of her son dances in her eye, eliciting a laugh from. "I got this thing with Quinn right now, and I can't talk long. So, good news – I sort of have a future now and my SAT scores didn't completely suck because said girlfriend helped me study. Well, I'm going to Berkeley in the fall instead of USC, so I'm giving you the heads up. Later."

Heather throws caution to the wind, and breaks out dancing in her office.

Usually, she'd be horrified at the prospect of twisting her ankle.

Bears over Trojans any day, is her thought while she's about to do the Running Man.

.

.

.

"You influenced him into picking Berkeley, Heather."

"No, I didn't," Heather replies, satisfied smirk on her face. It's true – there's really an odd high from the feeling of victory, no matter how small. "Mother's Intuition strikes again."

She's in nothing but a bath robe, smell of lavender wafting through the air to her nose.

.

.

.

She's met Quinn Pensky only a handful of times – a lovely girl with a genius mind, and a love that is genuinely for the ridiculously stubborn teenager holing himself up in his dorm room, two hours before the graduation ceremony. Currently, Quinn is completely frustrated with him, and turns to her in desperation.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Heather," she sighs. "He won't tell me what's wrong, but maybe, he'll tell you."

"Me? Quinn, in eighteen years, I've only made Logan listen to me, a handful of times."

Quinn goes on to explain despite the protests, "But although studies have shown that the best role model is one of the same sex parents. Males often identify more with their mothers, while females have an attachment to their fathers – known as the Oedipus Complex. So, in summary, Logan will talk to you even if I can't get him to."

The artist blinks and is wondering how someone can have such a small frame, but a completely wide variety of knowledge that is the opposite. Regardless, Quinn sighs and smiles politely.

"Either way, it was nice to see you again."

"I feel the same way, sweetheart," the grown woman replies, and looks around if there's a crowd staring at the two in Maxwell Hall, inquisitively. She draws Quinn close, making the teenager close. "But here's the deal. You're Logan's girlfriend, and as you hold that position, you make sure he stays in line for me. Congrats on Stanford – even though technically I'm supposed to hate Stanford because of the competitiveness between UC Berkeley and Stanford. However, I like you, Quinn, so it's a win-win."

"Deal," Quinn nods, wide grin in place. "And thank you. I'm honoured you feel that way."

Quinn's phone buzzes and she directs a semi-apologetic glance, and she's off to deal whatever situation there is at the moment – her grandparents and Otis fly in from Seattle and she has to meet them. So, Heather is left to deal with a now sort of adult son who is either using this as another ploy for attention, or actually has something on his mind and won't talk. It must be bad if he won't tell Quinn, his own girlfriend. Heather sighs, and opens the door to Logan's dorm room. The walls are bare, the beds stripped and her eyes land on Logan, who is in a purple gown staring off into space angrily like the target is expected to burst into flames.

Straightening her dress, Heather sits cross-legged on what used to be Chase's bottom bunk next to Logan. His hair is actually not as curly, but he actually decides to straighten it more, Heather notices. She also notices he looks quite handsome in a tie, but that's beside the point. She'll have time to dote later and be all motherly to the max.

"Wanna tell me what's going on?"

"No," Logan replies, shortly. "I'm still handsome, and the world is a happy place. End of story."

Heather softly nudges him, and he finally looks at her, "Logan, tell me what's going on. Please or I'll cry. You don't want me to cry, then tell me."

His jaw slightly jaw, face aghast, "Seriously, what is with you women and uses weaknesses against us? Is that honestly fun for you?"

"Most of the time."

All that lands her is a glare from her son, and she rolls her eyes, turning his face towards her to make him look at her. All she wants to do is help him, and holing himself here won't do anything. He really does have Malcolm's eyes, a deep brown colour. She can read him like a book and knows that Logan can't adapt to change at all. The divorce takes roughly a year for him to accept, and in the process, he's shutting everyone and everything down. It's a cycle that occurs again, but it has to break today. Heather loves Logan enough to listen, and not watch him shut down because he's most likely terrified at the prospect of college.

Heather speaks seriously, "Honey, I'm kidding. But it's normal to scared of change – big change, like college for instance."

"Who says I'm scared of college?" he shoots back, defensively. "Maybe I wanted that shiny '68 Mustang and I'm pissed off because Dad got me something else!"

"Logan, you may be considered one of the best liars ever, but I know you inside and out. This isn't about a car, because normally you wouldn't care as long as it was shiny and fast. You have two hours until you walk across that stage and actually graduate high school. Your dad and I may have one of those relationships that will never be decoded," Heather smiles assuredly at her son. " – but if there's one thing we do agree on, it's the fact that we're proud of you. You're going off to college in September. You have a girl that is in love with you. The only difference is that you love her just as much. Am I right?"

"Yeah," Logan agrees, with his mother, sighing. Actually sounding sincere, he says, "I don't want to work hard and then fall flat on my ass. I've been here since the sixth grade, and now I'm leaving to go to a college that is 32.7 miles away from where Quinn is."

"How did you know that?"

"She told me, and it just…y'know…stuck. Weird, but it stuck."

"Regardless of however you may feel right now, you're going to do well in college. You love to edit things and when you do something you love you can't help but come out on top," Heather advises. " – but there's two hours left. Just walk across that stage, and look hot doing it!"

"I can totally do that!"

Heather raises a questioning eyebrow, "The college thing or the looking hot while graduating PCA."

"Both."

"All right," she says, and initiates a high five before doing their secret handshake. Heather bumps fists with her son and they stand, and for the first time in a while, Logan doesn't squirm when she straightens out his cap or fixes his black tie. "Make me proud at Berkeley, kid."

"Mom?"

Through a genuine smile, Logan's eyes are sparkling with gratitude, "Thanks, but is the part where we hug?"

"Too late. C'mere," Heather says, and pulls Logan into a hug. He merely returns the gesture. "I love you, Logan."

There's just something magical about watching one's child graduate. Everything leads up to this.

Malcolm's smiling so much, as he zooms in when Logan walks around the stage, and Heather's tears are doing multiple free falls through her smile, as well.

In Heather's defense, she's a mother is allowed to cry tears of joy.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I'm finished. Once again, I'm on this late night writing binge, so forgive me if there are multiple errors. I had planned for this to be shorter, but this wasn't the case. I'm okay with it. I liked writing this. After I crash, I'm off to work on "Shades" (title will change since I have found something better, and much for original). This idea came from "Logan Gets Cut Off" because in that episode Malcolm actually gets parental, so the thought of Logan's mom plagued my head, and thus this was born. **

**I hope you all enjoyed that. Please leave thorough feedback so I know my sacrificing sleep wasn't a waste. Please and thank you. **

**-Erika**


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